Killing Time
by Filter1970
Summary: Gil never takes time off because these bad things happen to him...


Hey all-  
  
Well, here's the first CSI fic I've ever written, over a six hour  
  
marathon session late Valentine's Day/ next AM. I suppose it could be  
  
easily slashed. Huge apologies if I'm overstepping by this not being  
  
slash, but someone requested Gil-torture, and this pretty much sprang  
  
full-formed from my head ala Athena. Enjoy! Feedback loved!  
  
Title: Killing Time  
  
Rating: PG-13 to R+, esp violence  
  
Warnings: I may have blown some medical stuff. Note time as story goes  
  
on. Grissom torture.  
  
Archive. : If you want it; just let me know where.  
  
No spoiler warnings. All totally made up. Thanks to the PTB and  
  
creative forces, esp. Billy Petersen's gift of Gil.  
  
Summary: Gil never takes a day off because these kinds of horrible,  
  
from-the-past things happen to him.  
Killing Time  
  
By Filter (S. Lopez)  
  
Stifling a yawn, Gil Grissom couldn't figure out why his eyes were  
  
hurting so badly. He was lying on his couch watching rain outside his  
  
window, wondering about angle and force per square inch each drop  
  
carried when it hit--it wasn't like he was staring down the barrel of a  
  
microscope.  
  
Reaching up, he pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It was  
  
then he realized he hadn't been blinking. *Well, that would do it,*  
  
he thought to himself.  
  
The head midnight shift CSI wasn't used to his days and nights off.  
  
When he'd fallen asleep in his desk chair Catherine had poked him  
  
awake and told him to take one of his days off which he was supposed  
  
to have every week.  
  
"We've been really slow anyway, Gil," she had told him. "Go the hell  
  
home and take tomorrow off."  
  
It could explode any time, Catherine, you know that. This is Las  
  
Vegas," he had protested feebly.  
  
"You're no good to us if you fall asleep on evidence at a scene. Go."  
  
And with much grumbling he'd taken the day off, slept a good deal of  
  
the daytime hours, and of course was awake as the night fell. He had  
  
fed his tarantulas, petted them a little, checked his email several  
  
times in case someone wanted something from him over at the lab.  
  
Catherine had yelled at him the last time he'd called to check in, so  
  
he'd let the phone alone for a while. He had finished every crossword  
  
puzzle in his home. Grissom was bored, and he wasn't used to it.  
  
He rolled off the couch and went to get a drink. On the way he passed  
  
the treadmill he had bought on a complete whim a month ago and which  
  
had only been used to walk Nick's dog the one time Nick had to leave  
  
the Lab with Grissom. A fine dusting of dog fur still clung to the belt.  
  
He got a mango juice drink out of the refrigerator and looked through  
  
his kitchen at the treadmill. Gil knew he was out of shape in  
  
general, though he didn't feel his job demanded he be able to run a  
  
marathon.  
  
"On the other hand," he said to himself, walking over to the machine.  
  
He was remembering the one time recently he'd actually had to hop a  
  
fence to look for evidence, and how Warrick had chuckled and given Gil  
  
a push on one dangling leg to get him over. Gil had insisted it was  
  
only because the fence was ten feet high, but Warrick had given him a  
  
knowing look after leaping over effortlessly.  
  
Since then Gil had thought about starting to run, and had been trying  
  
to rationalize doing so. *It can't be because I'm feeling fat,* he  
  
kept thinking.  
  
With a grin Gil realized he had his answer. He padded into his  
  
bedroom, laced on his running shoes, tucked his shirt into his shorts,  
  
and went out to jump on the treadmill.  
  
"I'm going to see what effect exercise has on the average man when he  
  
has to exert himself immediately," he said aloud. Any time Grissom  
  
could use science and analysis as an excuse, he found it easy to do  
  
things he found uncomfortable.  
  
Flicking the machine on, Grissom frowned at the readouts. He pressed  
  
a few buttons, jumped as the belt started to move, and began to jog  
  
slowly.  
  
When he was younger, Grissom had enjoyed running--he had refused to  
  
join his high school track team but ran anyway with the cross-country  
  
runners. It was one of the few times the overly cerebral young man  
  
felt open and free. By the time he graduated high school he was  
  
running ten or twelve miles every day, six days a week. It made it  
  
easy to get to remote locations with equipment when he started doing  
  
unofficial work for the LVPD. After a few months people were used to  
  
the skinny, intense kid with a jerry-rigged backpack of forensic  
  
equipment jogging down gullies and over dunes, wreckage, and building  
  
equipment to collect evidence.  
  
He smiled a little remembering his youthful physique, and increased  
  
the speed a little. Sweating and breathing hard, Grissom ignored the  
  
pain and observed his body with detachment.  
  
"Huh--took ten minutes for breathing to increase dramatically,legs  
  
tiring around twelve minutes at 4.5 miles per hour." He spoke out  
  
loud as he ran, interested in his heart rate's increase and pulse.  
  
At forty-five minutes Gil looked down at his watch, lost his balance,  
  
and flew backward off the machine. He sprawled on the floor, dazed,  
  
and laughed. He was coated in sweat, flushed, but feeling pretty  
  
good. Carefully he got up and shook himself, turned off the machine,  
  
and went to shower. He thought that maybe he'd be able to go back to  
  
sleep after the shower--maybe the run had tired him out.  
  
Grissom came back onto the living room rubbing his hair with a towel,  
  
wearing the joke handcuff boxers the CSI team had given him for his  
  
last birthday. He hadn't seen the joke, and no one had been  
  
surprised. Before he stretched out on the couch again he turned on  
  
his stereo and Nina Simone flooded the room. He turned it up to  
  
near-annoying level and flopped down on the sofa. Within minutes,  
  
Grissom was asleep.  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Quiet wheels rolled across the alley behind Grissom's house. The van  
  
went down another four blocks and stopped. The 830 darkness hid the  
  
tallish man from view as he got out and walked back to the alley. He  
  
crept silently up the alley until he was at Grissom's back yard, then  
  
looked about and hopped the low fence and walked on the cement path to  
  
the door. He knew there was no dog, no alarm, and no one else.  
  
The back door opened with a silent sigh after the latch had been  
  
lifted by a thin steel shim. The man left it open and before going in  
  
he shook out two shoe covers from his jacket pocket, slipped them on,  
  
and stepped inside.  
  
He knew the lights might be dim, and was not surprised at the loud  
  
music. With unerring precision he moved past the treadmill, around  
  
the low divider, and found what he was looking for.  
  
Grissom was sleeping on his back, one arm dangling off the couch and  
  
the other thrown over his eyes. He had pulled the blanket from the  
  
back of the sofa hastily over him and was in REM sleep.  
  
The man pulled a balaclava up over the lower half of his face and  
  
pulled his hood up over his head. He watched the sleeping man for a  
  
minute or more, taking in the rising chest and its gentle fall, the  
  
tousled, damp hair, the tan skin. Then, perfectly silently, he  
  
reached into his jacket and extracted a gun fitted with a silencer.  
  
He held it pointed towards Grissom's head while he reached into his  
  
pants pocket. Withdrawing a small gun-like object, he squatted down  
  
until he was at Grissom's eye level.  
  
"Hello, Dr. Grissom," he said softly, mouth close to Gil's ear.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Grissom's dreams were always remarkably ordered, stories that had a  
  
beginning and end, and his present one was no different. He was at an  
  
evidence site with Catherine, sifting through leaves on the ground for  
  
anything to help them find out where a body had been dragged from. He  
  
was shining his flashlight at a clump of leaves when he felt Catherine  
  
come up behind him close, lean over, and whisper "Hello, Dr. Grissom."  
  
Something about it felt wrong in the dream, which instantly made  
  
Grissom's unconscious mind set off an alarm. He groaned in his sleep,  
  
slid his hand off his eyes, and opened them.  
  
He came instantly awake and automatically began to rise when he felt  
  
the silencer press into his temple.  
  
"Just back off, Doctor."  
  
Gil tried to place the voice, person, anything--the person was  
  
remarkably anonymous in black clothes. He raised his hands  
  
automatically and nodded. "I'm not moving," he said. He was happy  
  
his voice was clear.  
  
"True." The man had to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the  
  
music.  
  
"What do you want?" Gil asked, and was rewarded with a muffled laugh.  
  
He felt cold all of a sudden.  
  
"You. Just you," the man said. He gestured with the silencer. "Push  
  
the blanket down."  
  
"I don't have anything here, if that's what you want," Grissom said  
  
somewhat weakly. He began to feel terror growing on him. The  
  
silencer jerked back to his head.  
  
"Move the blanket."  
  
Hand shaking, Grissom pushed the blanket down to his waist, body cold.  
  
He hated the exposed feeling, and hated his fear. The silencer moved  
  
closer to his head and he closed his eyes.  
  
"Don't worry. Turn away from me. Do it."  
  
"Please," Grissom whispered, shivering now with fear. He had no idea  
  
what was about to happen but every synapse in his brain was screaming  
  
danger. "Please don't."  
  
The gun whipped out and connected above Gil's left eye. He gasped in  
  
pain and automatically brought both hands to his face. "Do it," the  
  
voice said again, still level.  
  
Cursing the whimper that escaped his lips, Grissom shifted onto his  
  
side. He kept his hands over his face and tried to still his body.  
  
Panic gripped him as he felt steel touch the back of his neck, press  
  
in, and then begin to slide down his spine.  
  
*Please, please just kill me if you're going to, please kill me,  
  
please, please!* Grissom kept saying to himself. A panicked sigh  
  
escaped his lips as the barrel met the waistband of his boxers. A  
  
short slide later, and Gil knew he wasn't going to get off just dead.  
  
The man smiled under his mask. He pressed the barrel of the air  
  
syringe against Grissom's body, holding the elastic of the boxers  
  
aside with the gun, and pulled the syringe trigger. He watched  
  
Grissom's body jump forward, then relax. He pushed the elastic back  
  
in place, pocketed the syringe, and stepped back.  
  
Grissom was still waiting when he heard the music soften. Scared to  
  
move, it took a few moments for him to hear the voice. "Turn back."  
  
The man watched Gil move carefully back, sweating and obviously  
  
terrified of him. "You're gonna get a cold, sweating like that."  
  
"Why?" Grissom whispered weakly through his hands. "Why?"  
  
The man knelt down carefully and looked closely at Grissom. He  
  
prodded the hands covering his face with the gun barrel and looked  
  
into terrified eyes. To Grissom, they felt very much like he always  
  
believed his eyes felt to an insect he was about to skewer with a  
  
mounting pin.  
  
With unblinking eyes, David Emerson looked at Grissom intently. He  
  
knew Grissom didn't know who he was, had no idea what was happening or  
  
why, and was absolutely terrified of him. He found the idea appealing.  
  
"Oh, in time. In time, Dr. Grissom. About 36 hours, as a matter of  
  
fact. Feel anything yet?"  
  
Grissom stared back, confused, and then realized he was feeling very  
  
tired and a little dizzy. He blinked, looked down, then back.  
  
"What did you give me?" he asked.  
  
"A little something to put you to sleep. After all those hours at  
  
work, not a bad thing, huh?"  
  
"I don't--" Grissom began, then stopped. The tranquilizer was working.  
  
His head felt thick, his body heavy and weak. With supreme effort,  
  
he tried to imprint on his brain everything that had happened, and all  
  
that had been said. He dropped his hands from his face and with one  
  
nail on his right hand scratched his leg hard. He then scratched the  
  
couch leather hard, groaning to cover the sound. He watched Emerson  
  
watch him with detachment.  
  
"I know. Well, I better get that bag out of your closet. Don't go  
  
anywhere," Emerson said, standing and striding directly into Grissom's  
  
bedroom. He pulled the large duffel bag out of Grissom's closet and  
  
went back, smiling a little at Grissom's weak attempts to sit up.  
  
"Whoa, careful there!"  
  
Stepping over quickly he caught Grissom right before he fell off the  
  
couch. The sweat on the man's body surprised him, and he wiped his  
  
hands on his pants. "Man, Doc. Need to take a shower after all that."  
  
Grissom watched him hazily, eyes drooping again and again. He saw the  
  
man open his duffel bag, spread it out on the floor, and the last  
  
thing he saw was Emerson holstering his gun in his shoulder rig and  
  
coming toward him. He was trying to digest the fact Emerson had to  
  
have been in his house before and knew entirely too much about Gil  
  
Grissom.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
"Ya know, you tell the man to stay home and get some sleep--damn!"  
  
Sara Sidle and Nick Stokes stared over at Catherine as she clicked her  
  
cell phone shut. "Maybe he *is* sleeping, Cath. Think of that?" Sara  
  
asked. They were about to begin a night shift and were gathered in  
  
the lounge. Without Grissom around Catherine was head CSI, and they  
  
enjoyed annoying her--she was easier to ruffle than the big boss.  
  
"Whatever. He was calling all last shift when I sent him home. I was  
  
going to tell him maybe I'd come by after this shift and give him the  
  
good gory news, if there is any. He hates time off."  
  
"Yeah, buddy. Last time he had a day off he came back pissed as  
  
hell," Nick said as Warrick came in. "Bout time, Warrick."  
  
"Yeah yeah. Grissom ain't around, you gonna be the head bitch?"  
  
Warrick asked. Catherine cleared her throat.  
  
"No, that would be me. Let's get to work, folks."  
  
The shift only dealt with one stabbing victim, Warrick and Nick taking  
  
the job. Sara and Catherine did paperwork and checked lab reports for  
  
the shift. They were bored to tears.  
  
Warrick and Nick came back in record time from the scene. "What up,  
  
guys?" Sara asked as they came in. The guys sighed in tandem.  
  
"It looked like it might be juicy, semen and blood, whole nine  
  
yards, and then the wife came back from the liquor store and confessed  
  
to the whole thing. Sheesh," Nick said. "Maybe it's only when  
  
Grissom is around that stuff goes down."  
  
"Maybe. Ah well. Let's finish the paperwork and wind down for the  
  
man," Catherine said.  
  
"You going over after work?" Sara asked. She had more than once  
  
noticed Grissom and Catherine exchanging looks.  
  
"Yeah, thought I'd give him some news--he has to be going stir crazy  
  
right now."  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
1030pm  
  
Grissom's eyes flickered open a little and immediately he thought he  
  
was blind. A few seconds later he realized he wasn't, but he couldn't  
  
see in front of him and the air around him was stifling. He could  
  
feel rough canvas all around him, his legs bent, handcuffs around his  
  
ankles. His wrists were handcuffed as well, behind his back. Before  
  
his mind began to really panic, Gil imagined he was in his own duffel  
  
bag, probably in a moving vehicle. Then, he panicked.  
  
David Emerson drove Grissom's truck, the owner in the back, a few  
  
miles below the highway speed limit. It was fairly busy for 1030 at  
  
night, and he kept a close eye out for police. He could hear muffled  
  
screams from the duffel bag in the back, and pushed the cd into the  
  
player, smiling as Wagner blasted out of the speakers.  
  
An hour had passed, though Grissom didn't know it. He had screamed  
  
himself hoarse, particularly when he heard "Ride of the Valkyries"  
  
begin, and when his voice had given out he'd tried to calm himself by  
  
thinking of the biggest words he could and spelling smaller words out  
  
of them. He was up to onomatopoeia when he felt the vehicle stop.  
  
Suddenly, his senses were wired.  
  
Emerson hopped out of the truck and pulled the back open. The duffel  
  
bag was moving a little, and he was satisfied Grissom was alive. He  
  
pulled the bag to him, grunted a little as he shouldered it, and  
  
walked over to the door of the smallish house.  
  
Opening the old lock with a key, Emerson shut the door behind him and  
  
turned a corner into the kitchen. Six steps took him to the basement  
  
door and he opened that and flicked on the overhead light before  
  
starting down.  
  
Grissom could feel the atmosphere and height change and tried to shift  
  
around--his head was pointing down now and the blood was pounding in  
  
it. He stopped when he heard a soft "uh-uh, Doctor."  
  
At the bottom of the stairs Emerson hit another light switch. The  
  
basement area was flooded with bright light and he looked around with  
  
satisfaction.  
  
The basement was 12x12, dirt-floored, without windows. Near the back  
  
wall was a three by seven by two rectangle in the dirt, plastic  
  
sheeting on the bottom of the area covering a drain. A metal grate  
  
leaned against the back wall, meant to be fastened over the rectangle  
  
and secured with steel bars and a padlock which fitted into rings set  
  
into concrete around the rectangle.  
  
Emerson set the bag down carefully, aware Grissom was now awake and  
  
potentially dangerous. Emerson, unlike many other people, did not  
  
discount Grissom's strength. He knew the generally mild countenance  
  
hid strength and, more dangerous still, high intelligence. Drawing  
  
his gun again, he pulled the long zipper across the bag and stepped back.  
  
When Grissom saw light beginning to slash the darkness, he braced  
  
himself to either shrink back or fling his body forward. Bound as he  
  
was, he still had no intention of going quietly--he was too scared and  
  
too tired. When the zipper was all the way open he tried to unbend  
  
his legs and found he couldn't move them. He pushed against the floor  
  
with his hands and struggled out of the duffel bag.  
  
Emerson watched, gun drawn, as Grissom worked his way out and  
  
painfully straightened his legs. The CSI lay panting and blinking  
  
back tears of pain before glaring at Emerson. His legs tingled and  
  
cramped as blood flooded back in. After being half-suffocated in a  
  
bag for hours, Grissom was less scared than furious.  
  
"Doctor Grissom, your anger is going to get you killed. Angry men do  
  
stupid things," Emerson said mildly.  
  
"Who--" Grissom swallowed hard, mouth dry, "--who are you?"  
  
He watched as Emerson squatted down, gun pointing casually at Gil's  
  
chest. "David Emerson. The last person you'll ever see."  
  
Immediately Grissom began to flick through the names in his head, and  
  
came up with John T. Emerson, 1997, murder, two victims. Grissom  
  
remembered he had had the misfortune to be gathering evidence by  
  
himself in a remote site when John Emerson tried to kill him with a  
  
garrote. Then, Grissom had been faster and a little more angry in  
  
general-he'd managed to get free with several kicks and punches and  
  
ran away, dialing 911 on his cell phone as he ran. The evidence he  
  
collected there and elsewhere, and his own encounter with Emerson, had  
  
ensured a conviction. Citizens of Nevada had ensured Emerson's death.  
  
Grissom had been left with a deep scar on his neck from the encounter  
  
and a little more wisdom.  
  
"John?" Gil finally asked. He felt the fear returning.  
  
Emerson smiled. "You're good. John always has said you're good.  
  
Yeah. David Emerson, pleased to meet you."  
  
"But why?"  
  
"Well, in about, oh--" Emerson looked at his watch, "--18 hours my  
  
little brother will be executed. They do it at 5am here, you know.  
  
It's 1130 pm-ish right now. And, at 5am--not this one coming up, oh  
  
no, the day after tomorrow-you'll be dead too. That is, dead unless  
  
your little group of investigators finds you first."  
  
Grissom's eyes widened. "You're kidding," he finally said.  
  
"Oh, no. So, we better get going now. Here, let me give you a hand,"  
  
Emerson said, and stepped forward with a jump, launching a hard kick  
  
at Gil's midsection.  
  
Grissom doubled up with a grunt and rolled over several times. One  
  
more nudge was necessary before Grissom's body fell into the shallow  
  
rectangular pit. He felt the cold plastic under him as he landed on  
  
his stomach. He didn't have time to turn before the grate was slammed  
  
down and the bars set and locked. Grissom turned his head enough to  
  
see up through the wide metal bars of the grate at David Emerson. The  
  
man was smiling.  
  
"Well, enjoy yourself. I'll be back later." Emerson left with a  
  
whistle as Grissom screamed incoherently.  
  
******************  
  
345 am  
  
Catherine wondered at the music wafting lightly out of Grissom's house  
  
when she got there. He hadn't come to the door at her knock and  
  
insistent ringing of his doorbell. She frowned and wondered if he had  
  
been experiencing hearing loss again. She made her way around to the  
  
back, looking, and froze when she saw the open back glass door.  
  
Catherine jumped the low fence and crept across the grass, looking  
  
around intently. She noted the garage door was closed, the lights in  
  
Grissom's living room on. She hoped he was just letting in some air.  
  
She called his name when she got to the door, gun drawn. She glanced  
  
quickly in, saw nothing, then spun into the house. Nothing.  
  
Catherine walked slowly in, gun turning with her head. No Gris,  
  
nowhere. She turned off the stereo and stood in the living room. She  
  
saw the blanket on the couch, a glass on the coffee table. No  
  
Grissom. She walked into his bedroom, calling his name. Nothing.  
  
"What the hell?" she said under her breath. A cold feeling was  
  
creeping over her. She stepped into the living room again and dialed  
  
Nick Stokes.  
  
At home, Nick bolted out of the shower and cursed until he juggled his  
  
cell phone out of his jacket. "Yeah, Stokes!" he said.  
  
"Nick, it's Cath. Uh, there's something a little weird here at  
  
Grissom's place." Catherine wondered how to describe it. "He-s--not  
  
here."  
  
Nick laughed. "He can drive, Catherine. Probably took off somewhere."  
  
"Even if he did that, Nick--his back door was open. And--it just feels  
  
wrong in here. His jacket's hung up, cell phone's on the  
  
table-something's up."  
  
Nick wiped water from his face. "You sure?"  
  
"Nick, he never goes out without his cell. Too afraid one of us might  
  
call him. Will you--will you come over here" I'm gonna look around  
  
some more."  
  
"Well--okay. Be careful, I'll be there soon."  
  
After she hung up Catherine went out and looked in Grissom's garage.  
  
His truck was gone. For a moment Catherine thought maybe, for once,  
  
he had left his phone, and then disregarded it. Going back, she  
  
sighed and tried to see the scene as a crime scene.  
  
She slipped on gloves she always carried in her pocket and looked  
  
around. Nothing was in Grissom's jacket, no notes on the table.  
  
Picking up the phone, Catherine was about to replace it when she saw  
  
the LCD readout that normally held time and could display a greeting  
  
had changed.  
  
Normally, the phone just showed the time. Grissom wasn't interested  
  
in a cute welcome screen. As Catherine looked, she noticed the screen  
  
was displaying a short message: MANHATTAN.  
  
"Okay, now I *am* scared. Gris, where the hell are you?" she said out  
  
loud.  
  
************************  
  
420am  
  
Grissom had managed to turn onto his back in the pit. When Emerson  
  
had left he'd turned out the light and darkness had fallen hard. With  
  
an effort, Gil had calmed himself and was taking stock of the  
  
situation. First, he was surprised to find he no longer was shackled.  
  
Feeling around the pit led him to find two depressions in the side  
  
walls. Sandy dirt fell into his eyes as he scratched around and  
  
pulled out what felt like a tube. With a little work Grissom  
  
discovered it was a penlight. He smiled a little and shone it on the  
  
first depression, closest to his head.  
  
In the niche was a long metal box. Grissom reached in awkwardly,  
  
turning a little on his side, and pulled the box out. He looked at it  
  
closely and then opened it. He gasped a little at what he saw.  
  
The light picked up the pocket watch, the surgical steel gleam of the  
  
scalpel, and the thin glass of a small ampule. Grissom had seen  
  
enough military presentations and displays to know he was looking at a  
  
cyanide dose, older to be sure, but still--he had no doubt--lethal.  
  
"Jesus," he said, mouth dry. He shut the box with a fast click and  
  
shoved it back, unwilling to think of reasons it would be there. He  
  
swallowed and looked a little farther down, shining the light in the  
  
second depression. This one held a canteen. Grissom reached in and  
  
shook it a little. Liquid sloshed in it and Grissom sighed. "Great,"  
  
he whispered. "Hate to die of thirst."  
  
He flicked off the penlight and turned onto his back. He was cold,  
  
frightened, and confused--more than anything, though, Grissom was  
  
wondering if indeed his CSI team had any hope of finding him alive.  
****************************  
  
816am  
  
Nick, Warrick, Sara, and Catherine were trying desperately to figure  
  
out where their chief had gone, and how he had. Jim Brass had been  
  
there and allowed a crime scene to be declared, but confessed himself  
  
at a loss. The place was almost sterile except for the phone message.  
  
Each CSI had taken a different room--Nick the bedroom, Sara the  
  
kitchen, Warrick the second bedroom, and Catherine remained in the  
  
living room area. The only thing any of them had found yet was dried  
  
sweat on his treadmill and couch, a wet towel on the bathroom rack,  
  
and Grissom's own hair on the couch.  
  
Cursing, Catherine leaned against the wall and looked again at the  
  
cell phone message, now in an evidence bag but still showing  
  
MANHATTAN. She sighed and dropped her head. When she lifted it  
  
again, she noticed something the changing light had finally allowed  
  
her to see from her angle.  
  
"Nick!" she called before moving. Nick Stokes came out of the bedroom.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Look at this," Catherine said. She bent over near Grissom's  
  
treadmill at a patch of faint salt from sweat. From the angle and  
  
shape of the stain Catherine imagined Grissom had tossed a towel over  
  
it without actually wiping it. There were very faint streaking near  
  
the back of it, but more of a pooling of sweat near the treadmill  
  
base. The sweat salt was barely visible, but what Catherine had noted  
  
from her angle at last was the flattening of the stain.  
  
Nick knelt next to her. "Salt from sweat--actually, a lot of sweat.  
  
Well, it does look like he worked out tonight. What is it?"  
  
Catherine pointed closely. "Yes, it's a sweat stain on the  
  
floor--thank god it's a hardwood floor. But look here--see this ridge,  
  
and this one?"  
  
Nick leaned close, then laid out flat and eyeballed the shape.  
  
"Yeah, not a natural way for sweat to fall. Like someone--what, stepped  
  
in it?"  
  
"Yeah, but there was something different about the shoe tread--see?"  
  
"What's up?" Warrick asked as he came in, Sara close behind. "Find  
  
something besides that damn phone message?"  
  
"Cath may have found a footprint."  
  
"Nick, it's his home. His footprints are going to be everywhere,"  
  
Sara said as they all congregated around the spot.  
  
Nick, still looking closely, shook his head. "There's something wrong  
  
with the tread imprint-it's soft, or fuzzy. Liftable, but really hard."  
  
Warrick knelt to look. "Whoa. Yeah. Okay, that's weird.  
  
Electrostatic coming up," he said. Nick nodded.  
  
"Jesus. Maybe we do have us a crime scene," Sara said, shivering at  
  
the thought.  
  
"In Gil's home. And with two clues. Oh, guys, this is not going to  
  
be simple," Catherine said, voicing what none of them wanted to hear.  
  
***********************  
  
112pm  
  
Five hours later, Grissom was managing a fitful, cold sleep in his  
  
enclosure. He had yet to drink out of the canteen, worried about what  
  
it held and also worried he just might need the liquid later.  
  
He struggled awake out of a nightmare and blinked his eyes hard. He  
  
gripped the penlight in his hand tightly and resisted turning it on--he  
  
was afraid the batteries would die. Though he felt himself lucky he  
  
wasn't claustrophobic, Gil wondered how long he would be able to keep  
  
his mind occupied before debilitating panic set it.  
  
A short while later he saw the light come on and squinted at the  
  
sudden brightness, then heard steps coming close. He tried to make  
  
himself small, frustrated by the enclosure, and shrank back when the  
  
bars grated and the metal swung back.  
  
"Doctor Grissom! Glad to see you're awake."  
  
Emerson waited to see if Gil would reply, then nodded. "It's okay.  
  
Save your strength, right--I understand. Here, let me help then."  
  
Gil let out a frightened cry as Emerson reached down and grabbed his  
  
hair. He managed not to cry out again as he was dragged halfway out  
  
of the pit by his hair, finally ending up with his back against the  
  
edge of the pit, lower half of his body still in it. His breaths came  
  
hard as he watched Emerson warily.  
  
"Sorry. No shirt to grab. Very macho of you, doc. But--well, it  
  
doesn't matter."  
  
"What--what do you want?" Gil asked, surprised at his voice's  
  
steadiness. He saw Emerson turn away, then spin and Grissom felt a  
  
boot slam into the side of his head. Blood flew from his lips and he  
  
felt a blinding pain explode in his head. When his head returned to  
  
center he opened his eyes and blinked them clear. Emerson was sitting  
  
in a chair next to him, calm. He opened his mouth to let blood flow  
  
and raised one hand to feel the injury.  
  
"I don't really want anything from you, Doctor Grissom. Your life,  
  
maybe--but even then, I'm giving you a one in a million chance to get  
  
off. I suppose you might say that's about the odds my brother was  
  
gonna get off--your evidence was perfect."  
  
"He did it," Grissom managed to say. His head ached badly and he felt  
  
his lower lip torn.  
  
"I know. I know. John's not a good boy, and he's kind of dumb. It's  
  
just too bad I don't believe in the death penalty, Doctor."  
  
Grissom stared in astonishment. "You don't--"  
  
"Nah. It's a crock. See, I know what Americans really want with it  
  
is revenge, retribution"they want to inflict pain. But we have laws  
  
against that. My brother's dying because we don't have the balls to  
  
just say 'you know, we want to lynch him, that's what will make us  
  
feel better'."  
  
"You--I don't--"  
  
"I know. Why am I doing this if I know he deserves to die? Because I  
  
want revenge for it. He's a murderer, but he's my brother. I said  
  
I"d take care of him. And if I can't--well, I can take care of you,  
  
Doctor Grissom. A little retribution, a little pain--maybe I'll feel  
  
better," Emerson said, then knelt next to Grissom. He grabbed the  
  
graying hair again and pulled Gil's head close to his. "It'll hurt,  
  
but as the hours go, well-it'll hurt more than this," he said, then  
  
Grissom saw a black-gloved hand with a dully shining set of brass  
  
knuckles on it making its way toward his face. His head flew back as  
  
Emerson let go, and Gil knew before his body hit the edge of the pit  
  
again that his nose was broken. He tried to get his hands up to  
  
protect his face but Emerson pulled him close again and slammed the  
  
metal-clad fist into his face again and again. Frantic, Gil managed  
  
to deflect some of the blows with flailing arms, but he felt his nose  
  
explode in pain again, his lip split open more, and the last blow sent  
  
a shrieking pain from Gil's left temple up into his brain--it felt like  
  
his cheek bone or supra orbital ridge had cracked. He moaned in pain,  
  
trying vainly to lift his hands to his face. Emerson stepped back,  
  
winded, and watched.  
  
The sight didn't please him. His own rage had pushed him a little  
  
farther with his fists than he planned on going, and he was upset he"d  
  
lost control. The man writhing in pain, bleeding profusely, did not  
  
make him happy. Emerson frowned.  
  
Grissom had tensed for more blows, and when they didn't come he opened  
  
his one good eye and looked. He saw Emerson watching him and thought  
  
he saw something pass over his face, but the pain in his head was  
  
canceling out his reasoning skills. Gil let his hands fall to his  
  
side and simply waited"he could do nothing else.  
  
Finally, Emerson cleared his throat and pocketed the brass knuckles.  
  
He sat back in the chair and sighed. "That wasn't exactly planned,"  
  
he said at last. "Sorry."  
  
Grissom watched through a fine film of blood, trying to blink it out  
  
of his eye. His whole body and head ached and all he wanted was to  
  
lay down and either die or go to sleep for days. He waited for either  
  
option to become available.  
  
"Well, let's get on with this then--no, Doc. I'm not going to hurt you  
  
like that again. Promise." Emerson stood, and with infinite care  
  
settled Grissom back into the pit. Pain was spreading all through his  
  
body but Grissom realized Emerson was trying to be careful. *What the  
  
hell for?* he thought vaguely.  
  
"There. Now, I need to move you onto your stomach--it's gonna hurt.  
  
I'll try to be careful," Emerson said, and rolled Grissom onto his  
  
stomach. Tears flowed from Grissom's eyes as he tried to keep his  
  
face from touching the ground. His ribs ached as well from the kicks  
  
earlier, and overall Grissom couldn't think of anything but how much  
  
he hurt.  
  
Reaching into his back pocket, Emerson withdrew a rubber glove and a  
  
closed knife. He drew off his leather glove with his left hand  
  
carefully and slid on the rubber glove before picking the knife up and  
  
opening it. He knelt next to the pit and placed the tip of the knife  
  
at the top of Grissom's spine.  
  
Grissom felt the prick of metal and his breathing halted. Part of him  
  
said, well, at least I won't be in any more pain, and another was  
  
yelling at him that death wasn't an option.  
  
"I need you to push your shorts down, Doc. Come on, you can do it,"  
  
Emerson said lightly, pressing hard enough to force a drop of blood  
  
from Gil's skin.  
  
Shivering, Grissom managed to bring his left hand out from under him.  
  
He had no idea what was going to happen, but something about Emerson  
  
wanting him to do it reminded him of something. Before he moved the  
  
hand down his side he scrabbled at the sandy dirt on the side of the  
  
pit, trying to get it under his nails.  
  
Slowly, he slid his hand along his side until he felt the elastic  
  
waistband, hesitated, and a pain behind his head moved his hand. He  
  
pushed the elastic down until he felt metal press against the skin he  
  
uncovered. He released his breath shakily and closed his eyes,  
  
digging his hand into the material and scraping his nails on the edge  
  
of the elastic, trying to deposit dirt there--maybe it'd make its way  
  
to his CSIs  
  
Emerson released the trigger on the air syringe and Grissom felt a  
  
cold shock. He thought it was over and let his hand drop, when he  
  
felt the knife slide down his spine, cutting a shallow wound, then  
  
slice deeply across his lower back. Grissom hissed in pain, then  
  
cried out in fear when he felt the knife slide under the waistband of  
  
his boxers and rip the cloth open down the side of the leg. Quickly  
  
Emerson slit the other leg of the boxers and pulled the boxers off  
  
Grissom. He held the bunched cloth on the bleeding back wound until  
  
blood had fairly soaked it, then shook a plastic evidence bag open  
  
from his pocket and tossed them in. He sealed it and stood up,  
  
observing the shaking and moaning man below him with detachment.  
  
"I imagine that hurt. Sorry. I don't think you'll bleed to death  
  
from it. I wouldn't let you, anyway. Besides--in about 14 hours it'll  
  
all be moot."  
  
Grissom managed to turn his head so he could see Emerson. Pain  
  
blurred his view but he tried to pay attention.  
  
"The injection I just gave you? It's an interesting little  
  
development in chemical warfare from friends overseas. How did I get  
  
it? Same way I manage to get into this place--I know the right  
  
people." Emerson set the bag aside and knelt down.  
  
"It's basically the same family as Ebola, with a modification. It's  
  
now a pneumonic form of bubonic plague-like thing. Massive internal  
  
bleeding after a 12-16 hour period of incubation. Fever, chills,  
  
sweating, dysentery--sorry about that. Vomiting--at a certain point  
  
you'll be vomiting blood as your lungs start to degrade. If you make  
  
it to 12 hours, you'll start bleeding from your pores,  
  
probably--depends on the virulence of the strain I gave you, and your  
  
own tolerance, of course. At 14 hours most people will be dead. No  
  
one's alive after 16 hours.  
  
"Why now? Well, I calculate that right about the time my brother's  
  
being killed, you'll decide to kill yourself with one of the handy  
  
tools I left you down there. I doubt you'll be able to take the pain.  
  
In about sixteen hours he'll be dead, and so will you--by your own  
  
hand or mine." Emerson stood, picking up the bag, then snapped his  
  
fingers.  
  
"Oh! I said I would give you a one in a million chance. I'm going to  
  
leave one more little clue for your team. These shorts will prove you  
  
are alive, or were, and maybe that you had some drug in your blood.  
  
Unfortunately, they'll have to have figured out the first clue to  
  
figure out where these are. I hope they're as good as you are,"  
  
Emerson said. He set the evidence bag on the chair and replaced the  
  
grate. "Sleep tight, Doctor Grissom," he said before leaving and  
  
turning off the light.  
  
In the darkness, Grisson wept bitterly.  
  
************************  
  
415pm  
  
At the lab, Catherine was frustrated by attempts to retrieve anything  
  
from the cell phone she'd found in Grissom's home. Nick, Sara, and  
  
Warrick had retrieved anything it looked like Grissom had touched from  
  
his house, and Warrick was going over the living room again in  
  
one-foot sections.  
  
Nick Stokes came into the lab, eyes bleary. "Hey, Cath."  
  
"Nick," Catherine said, not looking up from the scope. "Anything?"  
  
"No, goddammit. Not a damn thing. The print is smudgy--something  
  
between it and the sweat--I just can't *think* clearly right now!" he  
  
said, slamming his hand on the table. Catherine jumped. "Sorry."  
  
"You know, I've been thinking about that. What if--Nick, what if  
  
someone broke into Grissom's house, and kidnapped him?"  
  
"Catherine, that's what we assumed happened!"  
  
"Let me finish--what if they did it, and did it with knowledge of how  
  
to keep any evidence from being left behind? Almost like they knew  
  
Gil's job."  
  
Nick leaned against a table. "Okay, that's creepy. But--oh, man."  
  
"Nick?"  
  
"Catherine, what if the guy was wearing shoe covers? Like we would in  
  
a scene?"  
  
Catherine let this sink in, not noting Sara had come in with her cell  
  
phone to her ear. "Oh, Nick--"  
  
"Okay--yeah, okay, here Cath. It's Warrick," Sara said. She handed the  
  
phone to a surprised Catherine and stood next to Nick. "He found  
  
something," she whispered to Nick.  
  
"Yeah? Really. Oh, Warrick--that's not good. I mean, at least we  
  
have something, but it's not a positive sign. Get it over here now.  
  
All right." Catherine shut the phone and handed it back to Sara.  
  
"Jesus, how much weirder can this get."  
  
"What'd he find?" Nick asked.  
  
"He found a little spot on the couch that had been scratched  
  
deeply--there was a little blood and a tiny skin fragment. He thinks  
  
it was deliberate from the angle and depth."  
  
"Oh--oh, no. Okay, so let's assume Gil is in deep shit wherever he  
  
is," Nick said.  
  
"Yeah. Nick, tell Sara what you think about the lack of evidence,"  
  
Catherine sighed, dropping into a chair.  
  
"Oh--well, I was telling Cath, what if the guy knows how not to leave  
  
evidence" I was thinking the tread print--what if he was wearing shoe  
  
covers" The only reason we'd get anything is because he stepped into  
  
a spot of sweat near Gil's treadmill and there was enough to soak the  
  
fabric through--he must have been moving really slow. So the print is  
  
barely there. Bastard *knows* about CSI methods!"  
  
Sara let that digest for a moment. "Then--then Nick, maybe we should  
  
be looking at Gil's case files. I mean--we all know it happens to  
  
cops, what if someone Gil put away got out and is looking for him?"  
  
"Maybe--but I'm thinking, it's more likely someone connected to one of  
  
the perps. I mean, a lot of Gil's cases closed on life or the death  
  
penalty. Not many of them would ever get out. We can go through all  
  
of them if we divide up," Catherine said, standing with hands on hips.  
  
"Cath, there are like hundreds. How are we going to narrow it down?"  
  
Nick asked, even as he found some hope in the idea.  
  
"I don't know. We'll leave out anyone with no family, I guess. I  
  
don't know."  
  
"We have to try. Let's search for Manhattan, too. Maybe born there,  
  
maybe a last name or address," Sara added. Nick nodded.  
  
"Yeah. I'll commandeer a computer in Brass' office--Cath, can you  
  
access Gil's files on his computer?"  
  
"Yeah. Sara--you get the computer in the other lab. Just start  
  
searching, fast, guys!"  
  
*********************************  
  
634 pm  
  
Warrick Brown came frowning into Grissom's office, looking at the  
  
report Greg had handed him. He tapped Catherine's shoulder and she  
  
looked up from the screen, eyes red. "Got the DNA report. It's  
  
Grissom's," he said shortly.  
  
"Of course. Anything else?"  
  
"No. Why would it be there" I don't get this whole thing."  
  
"Neither do I, Warrick. Maybe Gil tried to leave something to tell us  
  
he wasn't going willingly. It'd be like him," Catherine said, sitting  
  
back in Gil's chair. Warrick sat on the edge of the desk.  
  
"Man, I'm freaked by this, Cath. Without Gris around, I'm feeling  
  
jumpy--knowing I'm supposed to help find him. What if he's out there  
  
waiting for us?" Warrick shivered a little.  
  
"Don't think that. You did a great job finding that. Now, we'll see  
  
if we can find anything in the files."  
  
"Nothing yet?"  
  
Catherine sighed. "Nothing obvious. That stupid phone message is  
  
driving me crazy too. No Manhattan addresses in Vegas, no last names,  
  
nothing."  
  
Warrick hopped down and looked over her shoulder. "What about  
  
business names?"  
  
"Nothing there yet."  
  
Warrick sighed and stood. "All right, I'm gonna find a computer and  
  
try to Google me an answer. Maybe a paper in Manhattan covered a  
  
trial here, who knows. Maybe the guy has a thing about New York."  
  
*  
  
*  
  
855pm  
  
Grissom clicked the penlight off after looking at the pocket watch.  
  
He was cold, miserably cold, and he could feel a fever building. He  
  
still lay on his stomach, convinced he would be warmer. It meant his  
  
face was constantly hurting from being on the ground, but he really  
  
didn't think he could be in much more pain than he was.  
  
He was, however, finally giving in to his thirst. Reaching into the  
  
second depression, he awkwardly opened the canteen with one hand,  
  
brought it to his torn lips, and tipped it up.  
  
Grissom took two swallows before he realized the water was salty.  
  
Pain lanced his lips as he sloshed water on them moving the canteen  
  
away. "Fuckin' bastard," he whispered harshly. Gil knew, if he  
  
thought he was thirsty now, he'd be much worse later on after drinking  
  
salt water. Still, he capped the canteen, put it back, and curled his  
  
hand back under him.  
  
He wasn't sleepy, though he was physically exhausted from trembling  
  
constantly. He'd named all the bones in his body from his toes to his  
  
pelvis to occupy his mind, and now he started on his fingers. Grissom  
  
felt if he was still able to think, he would be okay, pain and all.  
  
"Phalanges.metacarpus.scaphoid.os magnum.  
  
*************************  
  
*  
  
1010pm  
  
Warrick Brown leaned back in the desk chair, frustrated after his  
  
twentieth Google search combination yielded nothing. Lacing his  
  
fingers behind his head, he rocked back in the chair and allowed his  
  
mind to wander.  
  
"Okay. It's not going to be obvious. It's going to be connected, but  
  
not obvious. So no city, no home or address--what's here that's  
  
Manhattan besides a goddamn drink? And I could use one too, nice big  
  
Manhattan and a blackjack table-"  
  
Warrick stopped. Head spinning, he leaned forward and quickly typed  
  
in *Las Vegas Phone Book* The search engine pulled up several sites,  
  
and Warrick clicked on one even as he grabbed the phone and called  
  
Grissom's office.  
  
He waited for Catherine to pick up as he clicked several times, ending  
  
up with a listing of casinos in Las Vegas. His eyes lit up as he  
  
heard Catherine's voice.  
  
"Willows."  
  
"Cath, it's New York, New York," Warrick said excitedly as he clicked  
  
on the final link to bring up the casino's home page.  
  
"Warrick" What?" Catherine sat up in her chair as well.  
  
"There's a Manhattan suite there--the casino, Catherine!"  
  
"Jesus! Go, go, I'll get Nick, go!"  
  
In less than twenty minutes all four CSIs and Brass were at New York,  
  
New York, hustling into the casino through a mass of gamblers and  
  
tourists. Brass shouldered to the hotel check in and asked for the  
  
manager. Nick, Sara, Warrick, and Catherine let their eyes wander  
  
over the crowd, looking for anything.  
  
Brass came back with a brown package with a white typed label on it.  
  
It bore the name of the person who was going to check into the  
  
Manhattan suite when he arrived from Belgium in two days. The hotel  
  
manager assured Brass no one had been in the suite and the gentleman  
  
from Belgium had yet to make it to the States. Sara and Catherine  
  
went up to the suite anyway, while Nick and Warrick took the package  
  
and went back to the lab.  
  
Opening it very carefully after x-raying revealed nothing overtly  
  
sinister, Warrick and Nick pulled out an evidence bag, red printing  
  
indicating nothing except EVIDENCE. Nick took the envelope for  
  
analysis and Warrick the bag.  
  
Warrick grimaced as he looked the bag over, then moaned softly. "Oh,  
  
Grissom," he breathed. He recognized the silly handcuff boxers they  
  
had given their chief as a joke last year--only now they were covered  
  
in what looked to be blood. "Please, please be okay," he whispered as  
  
he began the careful process of analyzing the bag and its contents.  
  
***********************  
  
1125pm  
  
Violent trembling shook Grissom's clammy body, the sweat rolling off  
  
his body pooling on the plastic under him. He knew he was running a  
  
high fever, besides coughing, and his stomach was knotting in pain.  
  
He knew he'd been lucky to just have to urinate in the last hours, but  
  
even through his shivering he knew it wasn't going to last.  
  
He was trying to curl up to get warmer when the first wave of nausea  
  
hit. It was unexpected and Grissom's well-developed gag reflex was  
  
overcome. He retched several times, painfully, and finally brought up  
  
darkish fluid and bile. It made his head pound uncontrollably and  
  
Grissom moaned and gritted his teeth. He managed to wipe the vomit  
  
away from his face, toward the wall, with one weak hand. The hand  
  
struck the metal box in the depression and Grissom pulled his hand  
  
away quickly. He didn't want to remember what was in the box. The  
  
watch he had set next to it so he wouldn't have to see the scalpel and  
  
cyanide again.  
  
Grissom had given up trying to occupy his mind with lists and  
  
wordplay--now he simply let his mind bounce from pain to excruciating  
  
pain. He found the worst pain was in his head, near his cracked brow  
  
ridge, the second his lip, and the third his bruised ribs. Of course,  
  
the general knowledge he had been given an injection of a disease that  
  
would make him bleed to death from the inside brought its own unique pain.  
  
A few hours ago, when the shivering had begun and not stopped, Grissom  
  
had shone the flashlight on the contents of the metal box. He saw the  
  
scalpel was bright and new, the cyanide ampule shiny as well. He  
  
tried to figure out what kind of death both would be. Obviously,  
  
cyanide would be faster. It was the obvious choice.  
  
Grissom had assumed the scalpel was for cutting his throat or wrists"a  
  
messy and not always successful way to die. He had been confused by  
  
that for a long time.  
  
It was when he coughed up his first dark yellow phlegm with a racking  
  
wheeze, and noticed a few brown specks in it-blood--that he'd  
  
understood the presence of the scalpel. It horrified him and made him  
  
draw his body away from the metal box.  
  
Grissom understood that Emerson was giving him two options--die  
  
quickly, and relatively painlessly, or slit wrists and bleed slowly to  
  
death. Gil realized that Emerson understood Gil's hope--he hoped his  
  
CSIs would somehow find him. If he wanted to give them maximum time  
  
to find him but minimize his own pain, he would use the scalpel and  
  
cut his wrists. They might find him before he bled to death. But  
  
Grissom knew he would have to time it correctly--if he cut his wrists  
  
too soon he'd be dead, and if he cut too late he'd last and suffer a  
  
horribly painful death if his team didn't find him. The cyanide was  
  
there if Grissom managed to last fourteen hours and finally, when his  
  
hope of being found had died, decided to end the pain quickly.  
  
The realization brought unexpected tears to his eyes--he had never  
  
known an understanding of sadism like Emerson's. He cried weakly as  
  
he remembered Emerson's words--we want revenge, retribution. We want to  
  
hurt someone. In all his years in the field of death, nothing had  
  
felt so utterly painful and meaningless as the choice he was being given.  
  
**********************  
  
156am  
  
Catherine bumped into Greg coming out of the lab, looking harried.  
  
"Whoa, there."  
  
"Oh, Catherine--I have the results of the tests on the shorts we--on the  
  
blood, I mean"  
  
"Greg, it's okay. We're all stressed. Can I see them?"  
  
"Yeah--it's, uh, it's Grissom's blood. His DNA. There's something  
  
weird in it, some synthetic tranquilizer-"  
  
"What's this soil analysis?" Catherine asked, interrupting.  
  
"Oh, that's the weirder thing. The soil's a relatively common sandy  
  
composition, found all around the outer limits of the city, but it's  
  
got a--see here, it's got a much higher level of radiation than  
  
anything normal. It's from a place the soil's saturated with radiation."  
  
"Jesus--the testing grounds! Greg, I love you!" Catherine said. Greg  
  
smiled weakly. He was very nervous about his results, knowing his  
  
boss' life depended on their abilities as a team. He hoped it was useful.  
  
Catherine sped around the corner and smacked into Nick. She grabbed  
  
his arm and dragged him into the lab where Warrick was working.  
  
"Guys! We know he's somewhere with a really high level of radiation  
  
in the sand--one of the old testing grounds!"  
  
Warrick and Nick both looked at the report. "Jesus," Nick said. "But  
  
Catherine, there are like hundreds of miles of old ground! And it's  
  
all military."  
  
"Most of it," Warrick said. He'd gone back to the computer, pulling  
  
up Las Vegas correctional reports. "I was wondering if maybe someone  
  
was coming up for execution who Gil had nailed. Now, there are a  
  
couple but one guy is up later this morning--here. John Emerson."  
  
"Does he have any family?" Catherine asked. She was dialing Brass on  
  
her cell phone as she asked.  
  
"Yes--a brother. Let me see--" Warrick opened another window on screen  
  
and searched news archives in Vegas. He found several accounts of  
  
John Emerson's trial, and found one reference to his brother David, a  
  
former Air Force nuclear analyst. "Holy shit."  
  
Nick looked. "His brother was a nuclear scientist? Oh my god."  
  
"Okay, Brass needs to find him--find where he works, all  
  
that--Catherine!" Warrick pointed at the screen. Catherine nodded at  
  
him, speaking to Brass on the phone quickly.  
  
Greg bolted through the door, Sara close behind him, waving another  
  
report. "Guys! I wanted to let you know I found out a little more on  
  
the radiation in that sample-"  
  
"Greg is a genius," Sara said. Greg took a breath and began.  
  
"I ran the sample's level of radiation against a database of radiation  
  
degradation in that particular soil composition. It's definitely not  
  
from a newer testing ground. The radiation in the soil is degraded  
  
enough for me to give an approximate time the last exposure might have  
  
occurred." Greg stopped, gasping.  
  
"And?" Sara prompted him.  
  
"I asked a friend in the Department of Defense if he could run the  
  
sample's analysis against any database of radiation measurement he  
  
happened to have around. They test all grounds each year, you know,  
  
except some of the privately held ones sometimes fudge it and do it  
  
every 18 months. He narrowed it down to a testing ground in Nevada  
  
that's been defunct about 30 years--that gives us two places. One is  
  
privately held and I think that it's more likely it's that one. No  
  
military to shoot at you if you're careful." He finished and leaned  
  
on the desk, breathless.  
  
Warrick, Nick, and Catherine all stared at him, then spontaneously  
  
hugged him. "Damn, Greg, I'll never tease you about your hair again!"  
  
Warrick bellowed.  
  
Greg shook himself free. "Guys, you gotta get going. This place is  
  
five hours away. Grissom could be hurt."  
  
"Five hours nothing. Warrick, call Brass and tell him we need the  
  
police Lear. Greg, get me the precise location of this place. Nick,  
  
you, me, Sara, and Warrick have to be on the airstrip in fifteen  
  
minute--grab your gear and guns. And Nick--grab the big med kit and  
  
find us a paramedic to go with."  
  
The group spun into action, happy to have something to cling to and  
  
worried they'd have found it too late for their chief.  
  
************************  
  
315am  
  
Emerson had come down the stairs and opened the grate. He saw the  
  
body move slightly--he had thought Grissom would still be alive. He  
  
noted with a clinical eye the sweat, the ugly gash on the back, the  
  
tremors running through the man's body. Emerson brought the chair  
  
closer and sat, elbows on knees.  
  
Something about the condition Grissom's body was in made him angry.  
  
He knew he wouldn't lose control again, and didn't consider himself at  
  
fault for the CSI's general shape now--but something bothered him. He  
  
reached down and lightly prodded Grissom's shoulder, watching as the  
  
body jerked slightly. He heard the breathing quicken and saw the man  
  
try to draw away. His body barely had the strength to shift his  
  
weight away from Emerson.  
  
Emerson leaned back. He thought that perhaps he was bothered because  
  
one, he was appalled at the degraded state Grissom had fallen into,  
  
and two, because he halfway expected Grissom to have taken the  
  
cyanide. Part of him knew that the CSI was a strong man, obviously  
  
capable, and probably possessed of a high tolerance for pain, but he  
  
had not thought Grissom capable of enduring what he knew to be  
  
terrible pain for so many hours. It made him angry, sad, and a little  
  
resentful. He wasn't getting the revenge he thought he wanted, and  
  
the pain he was inflicting was beginning to seem excessive even to  
  
him. *Well, there's nothing I can do now to stop it,* he thought.  
  
Taking a small box out of his pocket, he looked at it, sighed a  
  
little, and set it carefully down next to the edge. It bore a large  
  
block-lettered word on its plastic case: E-66 ANTIDOTE.  
  
"Doctor Grissom. I didn't expect you to really be with us. Right  
  
now, I think they're probably asking my brother what he'd like to  
  
eat--final meal and all. I wish I had more options for you, but I'm  
  
afraid there are limited options." Emerson reached into his pocket  
  
and tossed a Payday candy bar into the pit. It hit Grissom's shoulder  
  
and he moaned in pain.  
  
Grissom opened his one relatively unswollen eye and saw the candy  
  
wrapper. He tried to find the humor in it--the salt in the candy bar  
  
would only exacerbate his pain--and he failed. He had been unable to  
  
drink anything else after his first few swallows of water, and his  
  
throat was closing up with thirst, opened occasionally by violent  
  
retching. The only fluid he'd swallowed in hours had been blood from  
  
his torn lip and face. Blood, mucus, and grainy phlegm were sticky  
  
and drying under him, for he had been unable to keep up with the  
  
quantity--he had stopped trying to wipe it away from him.  
  
As Emerson watched, a harsh cough racked Grissom's body and he  
  
grimaced at the sound and the groans of pain. He wondered at the  
  
man's ability to tolerate pain, and then wondered--what if he was too  
  
weak to move now?  
  
Emerson knelt at the edge of the pit and touched Grissom's shoulder.  
  
A sound escaped and he prodded harder. Gil managed to form a  
  
whispered "no".  
  
"Okay. You are alive. I'm going to give you a hand," Emerson said,  
  
and reached into the depression near Gil's head, taking out the metal  
  
box. He opened it and set the cyanide pill in front of Gil's eyes,  
  
and the scalpel into his right hand, after pulling the hand from under  
  
Grissom's body. "There. I was worried maybe you weren't up to the  
  
task." When he stood he shut the grate, barred it, and clicked the  
  
padlock with a simple finality.  
  
Grissom was too tired to cry. He weakly held the scalpel and drew his  
  
hand up slightly to show he was quite capable. He shut his eyes on  
  
the cyanide and tried to simply keep breathing.  
  
******************  
  
340 am  
  
"Okay, I pulled all kind of illegal strings to get us here, informed  
  
the military of where we're flying, and now we've got to figure out  
  
where in a hundred mile square Grissom could be," Brass said over the  
  
jet's whine. The CSIs and Brass were in the jet, along with the pilot  
  
and a slightly bewildered paramedic Warrick has shanghaied.  
  
"Hey, we're over the area now," the pilot said from up front. At  
  
that, the team started looking out windows as the pilot dropped the plane.  
  
"Are there any buildings left" Any structures at all?" Nick asked as  
  
Warrick flipped through a file on the old Nevada Stakes proving ground.  
  
"Most are gone, just fallen over, but it seems the owners report a few  
  
old houses and sheds on the land. The houses were part of the  
  
testing--see how they'd take the blasts."  
  
"Some are still around?" Sara asked. Warrick nodded.  
  
"Only those about a half-mile, mile away from ground zero. They're  
  
still pretty damn radioactive."  
  
"And me without a Geiger counter," Catherine sighed. Her fear for  
  
Grissom was almost out of control. He'd been gone too long for  
  
anything good to happen.  
  
Brass was looking out a side window when he thought he saw a blue  
  
metal flash in the distance. "Hey, Mike--do you see that flash up  
  
ahead? About northwest?" he asked the pilot. The CSIs crowded round him.  
  
The pilot looked, then veered slightly northwest. "There's something.  
  
I'll drop down."  
  
*******************************  
  
350am  
  
Lacking the strength to talk to himself, Grissom had been signing  
  
lines from poems and songs he remembered, his hands moving feebly. He  
  
felt he had to do something to keep from deciding on a form of  
  
suicide. He kept his eyes tightly closed so he wouldn't see the  
  
cyanide ampule in front of him.  
  
The coughing was almost constant now, and Grissom could feel his lungs  
  
filling with fluid--his breathing was labored and raspy. The last hour  
  
or so dysentery had finally struck and he felt dehydrated and totally  
  
void of energy. Between the vomiting, the shivering, and constant  
  
stomach and intestinal pain, he knew he wasn't far from a bad death.  
  
He forced himself to think very clearly, deciding on a way to end the  
  
pain that could still save him--he had not given up hope in his CSI  
  
team. Grissom figured that if he was going to die there was no point  
  
in giving up until he was dead--the pain he'd tolerated so long could  
  
not really get any worse. Of course, as he thought this every nerve  
  
ending was screaming at him in shrieking, hysterical unison: PAIN.  
  
Grissom didn't think he could use the cyanide. It was too final, too  
  
completely irretrievable. At the same time, he knew he couldn't take  
  
more pain. He had reached his limit of tolerance and only had enough  
  
mind left to decide his next move.  
  
He struggled and managed to bring his right hand up, then pushed with  
  
his last muscular energy and was able to push his body up enough to  
  
get his left hand out from under his body. It left him almost on his  
  
side, and drained. It was several minutes before he could move again.  
  
He moved his head so the cyanide was out of his direct line of sight  
  
and breathed deeply, exhaling in a cough a fine mist of blood.  
  
Grissom felt he should leave something, in case they didn't find him  
  
in time, something--he wanted more than ever in his life to be able to  
  
tell people he cared about that he did care for them deeply.  
  
Moving his hands together, Grissom signed a goodbye to his mother and  
  
his friends. He signed Catherine's name last, his mind trying to  
  
focus on her, to give him any kind of center. A rattling cough turned  
  
into a gagging as blood and bile warred to be vomited out, and the  
  
intense pain decided him. He drove the scalpel cleanly into his left  
  
wrist, pulling it down the vein, not across, then without  
  
acknowledging that tiny hurt in a myriad of greater ones, turned the  
  
knife and cut his other wrist open. Grissom dropped the knife,  
  
brought his hands up to his chest, and waited for whatever was going  
  
to happen to occur.  
  
***************************  
358am  
  
The pilot had brought the plane down less than thirty yards away from  
  
Grissom's truck. The CSIs piled out, guns drawn, as Brass ordered the  
  
paramedic to stay near the rear.  
  
Nick and Warrick went to the truck and glanced in. Seeing nothing but  
  
the keys in the ignition, they backed up Brass, Sara, and Catherine as  
  
they approached the wooden old house nearby.  
  
Brass was about to knock, Warrick going around the side and Nick the  
  
back, when the door opened. Brass jumped back and aimed, Sara and  
  
Catherine training their guns as well on the man in the doorway. "Who  
  
the hell are you?" Brass yelled over the whine of the jet engine.  
  
"David Emerson. Please, don't shoot. Can I help you?"  
  
Brass pushed the man aside, against the inside wall. "Damn well  
  
better be able to. Where's Gil Grissom?"  
  
Emerson watched with detachment as Sara and Catherine burst in, going  
  
through the house. He stood mildly before Brass. "That's up to  
  
Doctor Grissom, isn't it?" Emerson answered. Nick and Warrick came  
  
into the house.  
  
"Nothing out there. Grissom!" Nick yelled as he passed the two men in  
  
the doorway. Warrick glared at Emerson as he too passed.  
  
"They're upset with me," Emerson pointed out. Brass shook him and  
  
tossed him into the living room area. Emerson sat on the only chair  
  
in the room and watched Brass watch him.  
  
Catherine had found a door in the kitchen and swung it open, waiting  
  
for another person to appear. Warrick came behind her. She reached  
  
up for the light.  
  
"Got your back, Cath," Warrick said. They both felt a nervous energy  
  
and a cold fear.  
  
"Good." She went down the stairs carefully. Warrick followed,  
  
pulling out his flashlight and flicking it on to find the next light.  
  
He shone the light on the switch near the bottom and nudged  
  
Catherine. As they got near the bottom of the stairs a sour smell of  
  
sweat and blood filled the air. Warrick cringed inside.  
  
Catherine flicked the switch, quickly checked the room for people, and  
  
saw the grate. She ran to it, holstering her gun, as Warrick yelled  
  
for the people upstairs.  
  
Kneeling, Catherine saw what she thought was Grissom, but it was  
  
difficult to tell under the blood and dirt. She pulled up on the  
  
grate, saw the lock, and yelled for Warrick.  
  
"Oh my god--Cath, is that--" Warrick started, then he saw the lock.  
  
"Okay, screw the key. Back off," he said, pointing his gun at the  
  
lock from the ground and firing.  
  
The sound brought Gil around and he muttered a cry. He felt the  
  
presence of people and was afraid all over again.  
  
Warrick wrenched the grate up, tossing the bars aside, and recoiled  
  
with a gasp. "Oh god, Catherine--Grissom. Jesus."  
  
Catherine looked, paled, and turned to Nick who was coming down the  
  
stairs. "Get that medic down here now!" Nick bolted back up, passing  
  
Brass and Emerson and dragging the medic down the stairs.  
  
Brass looked at Nick, and back at Emerson. "I hope he's alive, you  
  
son of a bitch. For your sake." He saw Emerson look at his watch and  
  
cross his arms.  
  
"Four AM. Who knew he had it in him?" Emerson said. He smiled,  
  
uncrossed his arms, and Brass saw he had a gun in his right hand.  
  
Before Brass could bring up his own gun, Emerson had tucked the barrel  
  
under his chin and fired. The shot knocked him backward, sprawling  
  
him in a bloody mess against a wall. Brass looked once, holstered his  
  
gun, and went out to call LVPD from the plane.  
  
*  
  
404am  
  
"Catherine, he's bled all over, I don't know if--" Sara said, near  
  
tears as she looked at her boss and friend in his own grave.  
  
Catherine ignored her. She and Warrick were looking over the syringe  
  
in the box marked antidote. "Catherine, we could kill him," Warrick  
  
said nervously.  
  
"He's dying anyway, Warrick! If this is really what he needs"  
  
"Uh, he's not going to make it to a hospital, so anything you want to  
  
try, do it," the medic said. They had turned Grissom over so he could  
  
work. All the CSIs were appalled at the shape their chief was in, but  
  
tried their best to ignore the wasted body. Grissom's vital signs  
  
were almost gone and the medic was at a loss.  
  
"Cath--do it. Anything, we have to do something!" Warrick hissed.  
  
"Jesus--Gil, please, please, you gotta hang in there," she said as she  
  
took the filled syringe up. She tapped it, wiped the side of his  
  
neck, and injected it into his carotid artery. She held a gauze pad  
  
over the site as the skin sealed itself. "Well, this way it moves  
  
pretty fast. My god. Can we at least get him out of there?" She  
  
asked the medic.  
  
He shrugged. "He's so incredibly damaged. That he's not already  
  
dead--if his neck is fine, let me brace it and we'll pull him out."  
  
The CSIs made space and the medic worked swiftly. They all noted with  
  
mixed hope and dread that Grissom was still breathing. "All right.  
  
Help me," he said, and they carefully lifted Grissom out and placed  
  
him on a cloth-covered body board.  
  
Sara, unable to look any longer, stood up and walked up the stairs.  
  
"I'm going to call Greg and tell him it's okay," she said softly.  
  
Tears streaked her face as she walked.  
  
"Is it okay?" Nick asked, staring at the still body of their boss.  
  
The medic covered the body gently with a sterile sheet and continued  
  
to bind the wrist wounds up. He was very silent, trying to ignore  
  
both the anguished faces of the CSIs and the ravaged body he worked on.  
  
Catherine was kneeling next to Grissom, Warrick next to her. She  
  
reached out and very gently touched Grissom's matted hair. "It has to  
  
be okay," she said.  
  
Nick felt someone behind him and found Brass standing there.  
  
"Jim--what was that sound" Where's that asshole who was here?"  
  
Brass walked in and sat on the chair Emerson had occupied before him,  
  
looking intently at Grissom's body. "He shot himself. He said "Four  
  
AM. Who knew he had it in him?" and then blam. Grissom?"  
  
Nick looked back at his boss. "There was a box marked antidote next  
  
to that--pit. Catherine gave it to him and our man's been working his  
  
ass off. We're waiting a little, I guess."  
  
With a sigh, the medic, who had never announced his name as Bill, sat  
  
back from the body. "Okay. He's not bleeding overtly anywhere now,  
  
but his blood pressure is still so low--like he's bleeding inside.  
  
He's got a lot of superficial wounds, broken nose, maybe a broken  
  
cheek bone--and from the amount of vomitus in that hole, he's  
  
dehydrated and very, very sick from something that's making him cough  
  
up blood."  
  
"Do you know anything about an"E-66 virus, or drug, or something?"  
  
Catherine asked. The medic shook his head.  
  
"No--I mean, we all probably have to be quarantined in case of  
  
contagion, but if I had to guess, I'd guess someone's infected him  
  
with something incredibly fast acting and bronchial--attacks the lungs.  
  
Some forms of Ebola, old bubonic plague--hell, I don't know!"  
  
"It's okay, man. You're doing a great job," Nick said, sliding down  
  
the wall to sit next to Bill.  
  
"How long are we gonna wait?" Warrick asked. He was still holding  
  
onto the fact his boss was still breathing. He was afraid to look  
  
away in case Gil stopped.  
  
Catherine sighed. "I don't know. If that stuff was what he needed,  
  
well, maybe we gave it to him in time. He's so--damn, Warrick, he  
  
looks like he's been thrown out a window!" Catherine cried. She  
  
leaned into Warrick and he put an arm around her tightly.  
  
"I know. He'll be fine--I mean, he hung on for so long. He had to--he  
  
had to believe we were coming."  
  
"You know, he may have. I found a glass capsule in his pit there--like  
  
an old cyanide pill. And a scalpel. It's like he could have chosen  
  
either one--cyanide would have been fast suicide. Instead, he--" Bill  
  
stopped. The horror of the situation finally hit him. "Jesus," he  
  
breathed.  
  
Nick moved closer to Grissom. He reached out a hand and let it rest  
  
on Gil's leg lightly. The sheet was already staining with blood and  
  
fluids. "He was still hoping we'd come. Damn it. Buddy, we're here.  
  
Stay with us, okay?"  
  
**********************  
  
435am  
  
Grissom had felt his body move, and had decided it was simply shifting  
  
into shutting down, bit by bit. He could barely feel his legs. His  
  
face was numb, his hands freezing--*how did I manage to get on my back,  
  
then?* he wondered.  
  
An uncomfortable pressure on his wrists brought him once again into  
  
the present--he had been almost enjoying the gradual descent of cold on  
  
his body. He tried to open his one good eye and couldn't--everything  
  
felt weighted down.  
  
Then a shock of pain had stabbed across his neck, and his body had  
  
screamed in pain again. Grissom's nerves vibrated, sending tremors  
  
throughout his body. He tried to shift, tried to speak, tried  
  
anything--nothing seemed connected to his brain anymore.  
  
A short time later, though measured in Grissom's space of anguish it  
  
seemed days, he felt blood running more strongly in his limbs. The  
  
overloaded, simple, survival part of his brain began to function with  
  
his more rational mind again. For the first time in hours Grissom was  
  
able to think critically. He didn't like what he found.  
  
A voice cut across his mind. He thought it sounded familiar, and was  
  
afraid it was the insane man who had caused all this. With a huge  
  
effort he struggled to open his eyes. The effort failed, and Grissom  
  
felt a burst of despair.  
  
"There! Look, he tried to blink--Catherine, did you see it?" Warrick  
  
yelled, pointing. He felt a little like an idiot, but his joy at  
  
seeing some sign of life in his boss was overwhelming.  
  
"I did--oh, Gil," Catherine said. She touched his dirty, matted hair  
  
again, trying to communicate through touch how much she wanted him to  
  
live. Nick patted Grissom's leg.  
  
"I knew it. He's gonna make it."  
  
"Well-I'll take his blood pressure again, and then let's get him the  
  
hell out of here. I don't know what else to do," Bill said.  
  
Grissom felt the pressure on his arm and pain flared. A tear washed  
  
across his face and Bill noticed it. "I'm sorry," he apologized. He  
  
checked the dial and quickly released the pressure in the cuff.  
  
"Okay, it's up. Let's move him, but be really damn careful. If it's  
  
something affecting his blood or lungs, I don't want him screaming or  
  
breathing fast. He has to be moved very, very carefully. We'll get  
  
him in the jet and I'll have the pilot call Vegas Medical. There's a  
  
guy on staff there who does toxicology and immunology and has seen  
  
some strange shit in Africa. I want him to see this."  
  
"What do we do?" Catherine asked, trying to focus again.  
  
"I'm going to strap him on this, then I need a hand getting him out of  
  
here. You-Nick-- Can you help me? And someone should clear a spot in  
  
the jet for the board."  
  
"I'll do it," Warrick said, jumping up and running up the stairs.  
  
Brass followed him, casting a look back at Grissom.  
  
Catherine stood and moved to let Nick and Bill work. She grabbed the  
  
box and empty syringe, Bill's equipment bag, and moved up the stairs  
  
ahead of them. She couldn't shake the smell from the room.  
  
Nervous, Nick took his end of the body board and waited. Bill took  
  
the other end, holding it so he could walk up the stairs facing  
  
forward. They lifted slowly, conscious of Grissom's delicate state,  
  
and started up the stairs.  
  
Warrick was near the hatch of the jet, Catherine and Brass already  
  
inside. Sara was in her seat, buckled in, nervously jogging one leg  
  
up and down and watching. Nick and Bill exited the house and moved  
  
quickly to the jet. Warrick stepped down and let Nick and Bill enter.  
  
They carefully set the board down on the floor and Warrick came back  
  
in, shutting the hatch. "Ready!" he yelled to the pilot.  
  
"I need to call Vegas Medical-we're gonna take him there. Can you  
  
land this anywhere near it?" Bill asked, going up to talk to the pilot  
  
as they took off.  
  
"No, I can't. Closest I can get to any hospital is one of the  
  
military bases, and they're too far. But I can put it down on our  
  
strip and have a medevac fly him to Vegas Medical. Only lose five  
  
minutes or so in the transfer. All right?"  
  
Bill frowned. "Okay. Please make great time!"  
  
"Don't worry. I'll set it up, and then I'll tell Vegas Medical to  
  
expect a chopper soon. We'll make it happen," the pilot said, and  
  
Bill went back to his patient.  
  
***********************8  
  
5am  
  
John Emerson was put to death by lethal injection at 500am local time,  
  
his death witnessed by reporters, his aunt, and the father of the two  
  
people he'd killed. His last thoughts were about his brother, the  
  
only person he had been close to in his life, as he was strapped to  
  
the gurney.  
  
************************  
  
6pm  
  
Nick Stokes was taking the 4-6 shift at the hospital, sitting in a  
  
chair outside Grissom's room. Catherine was sitting against the wall  
  
across from him. Nick smiled.  
  
"Weren't you here from 2-4 too?" he asked. Catherine nodded.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. I thought I'd just hang out until shift begins.  
  
"Catherine, that's hours away. Go sleep somewhere. You know you're  
  
the first person I'd call if anything happened."  
  
Catherine rubbed her neck. "I know. I'm just--Nick, I have to keep  
  
nearby, that's all. I'm feeling over protective. I can't help it."  
  
Nick moved over and sat next to her. "I know. I know. I just--when I  
  
saw him, Cath--I got so angry. No one should ever have to feel what  
  
he must have. I wanted to beat the shit out of someone when I saw it.  
  
Then Brass comes down--and the guy's gone. Just gone. No one to hurt  
  
for this. I wanted--Christ, I wanted to beat someone to death!" Nick  
  
said. He hadn't let himself feel the fear and anger he'd felt when  
  
they found Grissom, and he fought to keep it from returning completely.  
  
Catherine looked at the younger CSI, then put her arm around him and  
  
her head on his shoulder. "You'd have to get in line behind me, Nicky."  
  
They were still on the floor when Warrick walked up. "You two okay?"  
  
he asked.  
  
Nick and Catherine looked up. "Hey," Nick said. "You too?"  
  
Warrick sat in the chair. "Uh-huh. Hey, I talked to our medic--name's  
  
Bill. He's a good guy. I told him we owe him. He said he"'d be happy  
  
if we didn't call him again for anything like that."  
  
"No kidding," Nick said.  
  
Catherine was about to ask Warrick about Sara when a doctor rushed  
  
past them and into Grissom's room. Warrick stood and looked through  
  
the door window. He saw the doctor looking at the myriad of machines  
  
helping Grissom breathe and monitoring his vital signs. Catherine and  
  
Nick crowded behind, and all three were shoved out of the way by  
  
another doctor. They congregated again and waited.  
  
In the room, the doctors were looking at Grissom's blood pressure  
  
readout and his oxygen intake. The sensors had set off an alarm in  
  
the monitoring area, indicating Grissom was struggling to breathe.  
  
What it meant at times was that a patient was trying to breathe on his  
  
own.  
  
The doctors were hesitant because of the unknown nature of the disease  
  
that Grissom had. Dr. Harry MacDowell, the toxicology specialist, was  
  
most intrigued by the fact that whatever had been injected into the  
  
man after the first injection actually seemed to be preventing the  
  
disease from wreaking any more havoc. The disease didn't seem to be  
  
contagious now, and if it had been before, Dr. MacDowell imagined it  
  
would have killed whoever had it by now.  
  
"You know, if he's trying to breathe on his own, it means whatever was  
  
basically liquefying his lungs has stopped. After we suctioned the  
  
damaged tissue, it doesn't seem he's had any more damage. I don't  
  
know how, but there it is," he said. He looked over at Martin King,  
  
chief of thoracic surgery.  
  
"Well hell. He's obviously a stubborn man. And, it seems he's going  
  
to make it. I'm happy to let him try breathing on his own."  
  
To the CSIs chagrin, they were elbowed once more by a nurse who went  
  
into Grissom's room. They looked through the window and watched as  
  
Dr. King and the nurse removed Grissom's breathing hose and switched  
  
off the pump. Nick could feel Catherine's nails digging into his  
  
shoulder and winced.  
  
Struggling in what seemed to be an airless room, Grissom's mouth  
  
worked and his body tried to remember how to breathe. He could feel  
  
the air trying to pass his sore lips, and tried to suck in a breath.  
  
A few failures, a moment of panic, and he inhaled on his own, a deep  
  
breath followed by a shaky exhale. It happened again, and then again.  
  
In his mind, Grissom felt an infusion of energy, something clearing  
  
and fresh. He thought the air sweet and cool, and even though it hurt  
  
a little to breathe, he committed himself to it and reveled in the  
  
sensation.  
  
The doctors were surprised to have to push the door open past three  
  
CSIs. They looked over the tired investigators and Dr. King smiled.  
  
"You all need sleep. He's breathing on his own. That's really a  
  
great sign," he said. Nick, Warrick, and Catherine let out their  
  
collective breaths.  
  
"Jesus--thanks. Thank you," Catherine said.  
  
"Any idea when he might come around?" Nick asked, arm around Catherine.  
  
"Not really. We don't know enough yet about whatever he was given.  
  
But whatever it was it seemed that antidote, or vaccine, worked. I  
  
think he'll be fine."  
  
"Yes, god," Warrick whispered. "Thank you."  
  
The doctors smiled at the CSIs and left. Catherine, remembering, ran  
  
after them. "Doc!"  
  
Both turned. "Yes?" Dr. MacDowell asked.  
  
"Can--can we sit in his room now, do you think?" she asked quickly.  
  
She saw them look at each other.  
  
"Oh--okay. Only one of you, and really I'd prefer it if for the next  
  
day you wore a gown and mask. Just in case," Dr. King said. He  
  
smiled at her. "I think he'd like it if he woke up and you were there."  
  
"Thank you--thanks!" she said, and trotted back to the guys.  
  
"So?" Nick asked.  
  
"I'm going in. Gotta wear a mask, and gown, for now. I'm staying  
  
until shift begins," Catherine said, taking a surgical gown and mask  
  
from a nearby cart. "No noise. You two can sit out here if you want,  
  
but I suggest you get some sleep. Don't make me pull rank."  
  
Warrick laughed. "All right, girl. I'm going to go to the lab and  
  
crash on the lounge couch. Nick, wake me when shift starts?"  
  
Nick nodded. "Yeah. I'm gonna stay here a little longer, then I'll  
  
be down."  
  
Warrick nodded, kissed Catherine on the cheek, and walked off.  
  
Catherine, tying her mask on, tapped Nick's shoulder. "Yeah?"  
  
"Thanks for letting me go in first."  
  
Nick smiled. "Happy to. If he comes to you tell him I said hi, okay?"  
  
Catherine smiled and pulled up her mask, then went in. Nick looked  
  
through the window once, then settled down into the chair, closing his  
  
eyes.  
  
*************************************  
  
855pm  
  
Catherine sat in a chair pulled up to the bed, watching Grissom  
  
breathe. She had seen his right eye flutter, as if it would open,  
  
several times, but nothing more.  
  
"Gil open your eyes, come on. Let me know you're here," Catherine  
  
said under her breath. She reached out a hand and let it rest on his  
  
forearm, on the wrist bandage. Before she closed her eyes, she took  
  
in the stitched lip, the stitches and butterfly bandages obliterating  
  
Grissom's left eyebrow, the plastic mask carefully strapped to  
  
Grissom's face to protect the fine surgical work of setting the supra  
  
orbital bone and to provide tension to keep the fracture together as  
  
well. She felt again the anger and despair, and tried to think about  
  
Grissom as he usually was.  
  
Grissom was becoming more aware of his surroundings, even though his  
  
body was on a fairly large dosing of painkillers delivered  
  
intravenously. The doctors had wanted to keep his body generally  
  
sedated to discourage any movement that might irritate the ravaged  
  
lungs, stomach, and heart.  
  
Through the haze, he felt his body's weight on the bed, and the severe  
  
pain in his head. He felt as if he should be able to raise his hands,  
  
but any attempt left him confused as to where his hands actually were.  
  
He engaged his mind as fully as he could, trying to concentrate his  
  
energy on opening his right eye, the only part of his face that didn't  
  
seem tacked down.  
  
Catherine opened her eyes with a start. She wasn't sure if she'd  
  
dropped off, and sat up quickly. "Gil?"  
  
Grissom flicked his eye over at the sound vibration he perceived. He  
  
didn't think he had lost his hearing again, but he felt his mind  
  
wasn't picking up on things with its normal acuity. The focus was  
  
slow, but when his vision cleared he saw Catherine looking intently at  
  
him. For the first time in a few days, Gil felt he actually was alive.  
  
"Gris? Oh, Gil--thank god. Gil, I'm so--it's good to see you back,"  
  
Catherine said. She stood, bending over him so he wouldn't have to  
  
turn his head. She felt tears forming in her eyes and tried to blink  
  
them back.  
  
Grissom felt Catherine holding his left hand loosely. He couldn't  
  
speak quite yet, and swallowed painfully. With effort, he moved his  
  
fingers in her hand.  
  
Catherine looked at the moving fingers, then back at Grissom. She saw  
  
the effort it was taking him to move them on his face. "Gil, don't.  
  
Just rest," she said, very gently stroking his hair.  
  
Frustrated, Grissom moved his fingers again, forcing his hand to work.  
  
He began to shape meaning with his fingers. And as he looked up at  
  
Catherine, he saw her begin to understand.  
  
Catherine looked again at Gil's hand, trying so hard to move. She  
  
took her hand away and watched. To her amazement, he was spelling out  
  
HELLO in sign language.  
  
When he finished, his hand was weak but he grasped Catherine's  
  
fingers. He tried to say hello, say her name, say anything through  
  
his open eye. What he had back of himself he tried to communicate to her.  
  
Catherine looked back at Gil's face, tears on her cheeks. His heart  
  
jumped a little at the sight.  
  
"Hi to you too. Welcome back."  
  
***********************************8  
  
The next morning  
  
Grissom was fully awake now, if not fully conscious of his body's many  
  
injuries. He was lying in the bed slightly elevated, his right eye  
  
roving as far as it could. He seemed to be desperate for sensory input.  
  
Doctors had come and gone, impressed at his recovery but not  
  
understanding his frustration. He couldn't make much sound yet, and  
  
they hadn't noticed his frantic one-handed signing for what it was.  
  
He was working his mouth, prepping for the pain he'd feel when he  
  
finally spoke, when Nick and Warrick walked in. Grissom tried to  
  
smile and winced a little.  
  
"Hey chief! Looking good!" Nick said as they strolled up. Neither  
  
wore protective gear, both doctors deciding Grissom's recovery was  
  
assured.  
  
"Yeah, buddy. And--Nick, he looks a little pissed!" Warrick noted.  
  
Something about the way their boss looked at them with his one clear  
  
eye seemed angry to Warrick.  
  
"Maybe. Hey Gris, you feeling okay?" Nick asked. He wasn't sure if  
  
Gil could talk, but he was trying to keep it light.  
  
Gil flashed his eye over at Nick, then Warrick. He dragged his right  
  
hand up onto his chest, surprising both CSIs, and began signing.  
  
Nick's brows raised. "Gris--uh, I don't know ASL, man. Warrick?"  
  
"I know the alphabet, but--uh, I don't know," Warrick said. He leaned  
  
a little closer and tried to make out the letters. "Um, let's see--R,  
  
and E, A--yeah, A. D-d? READ? Oh! Read!" Warrick cried triumphantly.  
  
Grissom let out a small sigh of relief. He'd managed to communicate  
  
something.  
  
"You mean, you want to read" Or something to read" Or us to read to  
  
you?" Nick asked. Grissom rolled his one eye. With a painful gulp,  
  
he opened his mouth.  
  
"S--second," he rasped out. The sound of his voice was both welcome  
  
and unfamiliar to the CSIs. It sounded dull, harsh, and grating.  
  
"Jesus, Gris! You spoke," Nick said happily. "Damn. I better call  
  
Catherine," he said, walking out to use his cell phone. Warrick moved  
  
closer.  
  
The sight of his chief and friend's battered frame, the obscene  
  
plastic mask seeming like both a joke and a terrifying reminder of  
  
what Gil had gone through, was still shocking to Warrick. Even with  
  
his extensive experience of death and the obscenities humans could  
  
commit, Warrick had a difficult time seeing the damaged Grissom.  
  
Before Warrick would let Grissom know how scared he'd been for his  
  
boss, though, he'd pretend he was okay with it all.  
  
"Hey boss. You had us a little nervous for a while there. Kind of  
  
stretched our skills on this," he said quietly. He reached out and  
  
patted Gil's right hand. "Don't do that again, okay?"  
  
Grissom saw the emotion his CSI was hiding badly. It touched him that  
  
Warrick was concerned and afraid for him. He would never admit he  
  
liked Warrick's work and personality better than any of his team  
  
besides Catherine, but the two men worked together with a facility and  
  
communication that Grissom knew arose out of mutual respect and  
  
talent. Gil knew Warrick was the one who would have his job one day.  
  
*Could've been soon*, he thought wryly.  
  
Grissom held Warrick's fingers to get his attention, and started to  
  
fingerspell slowly again. Warrick concentrated on the fingers.  
  
"W--WO, um, M. No, N. T. WONT? Oh--okay, you won't do that again. I  
  
get it. Good." Warrick smiled, then was shocked to feel wetness on  
  
his face. He removed his hand from Grissom's and quickly wiped the  
  
tears away. "I'm sorry."  
  
Gil slowly moved his head side to side and fingerspelled NO. As  
  
Warrick watched, Grissom spelled out what he"d been trying to say for  
  
hours now.  
  
//Thank you.//  
END | | 


End file.
